Tomorrow Will Be the Same
by Oasis Blackmore
Summary: But James can't quite convince himself that he's better off alone. Oneshot. Post "Lockdown." Slash.


Tomorrow Will Be the Same

James wakes, eyes opening to the red-light glow of **11:17** as the other side of his mattress sinks, and cold air hits his calves before his blankets can reseal the warmth. There's an arm around his waist, a nose pressed into the hair at his nape, and the edgy length of another body flush against his, and he mutters, "Lockdown ended a couple hours ago," at the alarm clock.

"Yep." House's exhalation is sultry on Wilson's skin, and his forehead settles softly against Wilson's right parietal.

James can't help but think how they don't do this - the nuzzling, the cuddling, the lying so close they might never get untangled. He's in slow motion.

"Where'd you end up?" he asks as House slips a hand underneath his T-shirt - deft, per usual, but only somewhat familiar.

"In a patient's room." James frowns, and House goes on, "How about you?" The reciprocation is obligatory, a distraction.

"The cafeteria. I played Truth or Dare with Remy."

"Who?" It's playful with the addition of nails.

"Thirteen."

"_Oh_." Wilson feels his shirt sliding further up his torso; this is the House he knows. "Did she ask about us?"

James can hear the teasing, but there's an emptiness in it, a lack he's not sure he can fill.

"Yes. I lied," he promises immediately.

It's strange, how House's fingers move less quickly over Wilson's abdomen then, and how he finds a way - in that impossible, loophole style of his - to burrow closer, as if the more surface area they share, the more easily he can absorb - can take whatever he wants from Wilson this time.

"What'd you do?" James wonders aloud, _Patient_, marqueeing through his mind.

"TV, paced, watched a man die." James would turn to face House but for the arm holding him in place.

House's deliberate breathing is suffocating.

"Was it something interesting?" Wilson asks instead, hyper-aware of the tension behind him.

"Not my patient," House answers by way of explanation, as dubiously callous as ever.

"_But_?"

House's palm reaches the desired point of diversion before the goad can take effect, and his mouth opens on the back of Wilson's neck.

James can't resist, gasping just loud enough to convince House the conversation is on hold.

And it is, until they've done what House always comes here to do - Wilson routing his groans into a pillowcase, House swearing insensibly above Wilson's scapula as one of their hands accidentally sends **11:36** skittering underneath the bed. It's all a matter of course, and Wilson fully expects House to be gone before he can get out the words, "I stole a dollar from the cash register."

Only something like that can make House postpone his retreat and reclaim his former position, molded against Wilson's spine like some sort of ill-fitted brace, panting, "Bravo," near his ear.

"And I'm pretty sure Thirteen's had a foursome," Wilson adds, post-coital lightheartedness kicking in.

House squirms a little, warning, "You'd better be ready for another round if you're gonna put _that_ picture in my head."

Wilson chuckles, not opposed to the idea.

They relax after that, and again, James questions everything; he can't control it.

House's respiration slows, almost sleepily. He's been running on empty for at least the last twelve hours, as far as James knows, but he doesn't want House asleep; he wants to force it out of him, all the trivia he doesn't have the answers to - wants to get past this round of the game show House makes out of life.

House's head falls onto Wilson's pillow, and Wilson chooses his words carefully.

"Let me guess; your sheets are dirty?"

House jumps like he was drifting but has no problem quipping, "Laundry is women's work, so I assumed you'd be doing it."

"This, coming from the man who took up laundry duty as a _hobby_."

"'Laundry' was just a cover. My _real _hobby was raiding your panty drawer. All that silk and lace . . ."

Wilson can sense House's provocative smirk the same way House knows to smirk harder at the eye roll he can't see.

He throws an elbow back jokingly, nicking a rib and not expecting House to catch the joint in his hand, to squeeze gently before easing his fingers up a moon-white forearm, up to Wilson's wrist, up to twist in between Wilson's own digits, pads aligning with palm.

James is marginally more confused than aroused by the gesture, skin tingling alienly. "House . . . ?"

House expires as if he'd predicted this reaction - no surprise - and pulls back into himself, giving James just enough leeway to finally turn over.

"House," the latter repeats more insistently, nudging House onto his back, so he can hover as always. "What's going on with you tonight?"

Those cobalt eyes are proverbially distant, glinting from the light peeking through the window - and perhaps the intentional peevishness that accompanies his rebuttal, "What're you hiding?"

The dumbstruck look smeared across Wilson's face is exactly what House was fishing for. "What? What am _I_ hiding?"

"You chose Dare because you didn't want to choose Truth. What's your secret?"

Wilson makes a huffy show of rolling back toward the clockless nightstand, hackles rising the way only House can make them do. He grumbles about deflection and projection and doesn't add that House is one-hundred percent correct; it's nothing new.

"You mentioned the dollar because you wanted me to ask," House presses, suddenly on Wilson, again, leaning over him.

James thinks what he wanted was for House to stay, but he can't say that. "I thought you'd be interested."

"You had me at, 'There's something I'm not telling you.'" House stops his banter and proceeds to breathe Wilson's air, playing the annoyance card like a child.

"Sometimes _I _get curious, _too_, you know," Wilson blurts after a moment, angling his face toward House's so suddenly he almost causes a collision, nose-to-nose.

"About what?" House doesn't back off - doesn't know how - and licks his lips challengingly.

Wilson raises an eyebrow, as if to say, "Fair warning." Using real words, he says, "About why my allegedly heartless best friend wanted to cuddle when he came home tonight."

Like a guitar string strung too tight, something snaps, but the twang materializes only in the clack of House's teeth coming together, the agonizing scrape of them being ground on one another. "I thought you'd enjoy it."

Wilson's irritation is aimed at the triumphant _Zing!_ he sees in House's eyes, and his, "I did," is half-vengeance.

House's surprise at the matter-of-fact words would be humorous if he wasn't scrambling out of their space as soon as Wilson says them. "Then you're welcome," he patronizes under his breath, moving to swing his stiffened legs over the edge of the mattress.

"You can stay," James offers, but what he means is, "I didn't mean to scare you," and, "Thank you," and, "Please."

House hesitates.

And then they're both lying under the covers with their eyes to the ceiling, touching at the triceps but otherwise uninvolved.

"You're welcome," Wilson murmurs for a zing of his own and, briefly examining the side of House's lined face, sees the smile his well-timed joke earns.

The smooth silence between them is just right for the few moments it lasts, but God forbid more time between them than that be anything close to perfect, because James simply can't get himself in check. Conscience and comfort and a hundred other factors he can't imagine pry open his mouth and let the horrible admission, "I asked Sam out for dinner," tumble right into the room.

This time, House really is gone before James can bring up cash or crimes or the on-the-tip-of-his-tongue apology he doesn't deserve to have to give. He lies there for a while, listening for House's cane in the rest of the apartment, still wondering what's gotten into him - into them both. Minutes pass, and he remembers that he has to work tomorrow - _People to save, diseases to treat but not cure_, House's voice prattles mockingly in his head.

His alarm needs to be set for an unmentionable hour, so he ends up on the floor, groping under the admittedly frilly dust ruffle House once threatened to take into work and show off to all the nurses Wilson has flirted with.

**12:19** is intact when James pulls out the clock. He checks to make sure the alarm is on, puts everything in its place, and gets back into his side of his bed.

He will be at the hospital in a few hours today, and he probably won't see House until they both return home.


End file.
